


confrontation

by devilsjude



Series: dsmp but i write out the fun scenes [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Violence, maybe he'll learn after this lmao (most likely not), my man quackity really thought he was finna do something huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:55:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28501101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsjude/pseuds/devilsjude
Summary: Technoblade stands, the picture of apathy, entirely unfazed by Quackity’s threats, and Quackity doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to hurt someone this badly in his life.Then, he smiles. A slight curl of his mouth that gets Quackity’s blood boiling. “Do you think you’re enough to kill me?” He sounds curious, yet amused, as though Quackity’s declaration was little more than a joke to him. “Even unarmed, with iron armour, do you really thinkyoucan take me?”“Oh, I do,” Quackity responds, lip curled. “I really do. You know what?” He bares his teeth in a mockery of a grin, fingers flexing around the handle of his axe. He’s past the point of caring. The only thing he wants now is this asshole’s head split open and his blood splattered all over the chests and floor.He will kill him, over and over again, as many times as it’ll take for him to stop coming back. Bring his axe down on his ribs until his bones are reduced to shards and dust, hack at him over and over until his organs are nothing more than minced meat.He wants himdead.
Series: dsmp but i write out the fun scenes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120595
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	confrontation

**Author's Note:**

> the first work ive been able to stick to and actually finish and its bc of a fuckin block game. bye. yes this is late but im a slow writer sue me. also i write way too much, this is very obvious
> 
> anyways yeah this is basically just me writing the battle between techno and quackity from the dec. 16th stream. i didnt even watch the whole thing, i just heard that they fought, that quackity lost another life, and immediately rubbed my grubby little hands together like oh yes. i need to do smth w this.
> 
> if the beginning/part of the middle seems a little,,,clunky its bc it felt like pulling fuckin teeth to write and im honestly so tired of constantly editing everything so here lmao take my garbage
> 
> enjoy 3.6k words of two men fighting and one of them getting his shit rocked at the end :D

Technoblade stands, the picture of apathy, entirely unfazed by Quackity’s threats, and Quackity doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to hurt someone this badly in his life.

Then, he smiles. A slight curl of his mouth that gets Quackity’s blood boiling. “Do you think you’re enough to kill me?” He sounds curious, yet amused, as though Quackity’s declaration was little more than a joke to him. “Even unarmed, with iron armour, do you really think _you_ can take me?”

“Oh, I do,” Quackity responds, lip curled. “I really do. You know what?” He bares his teeth in a mockery of a grin, fingers flexing around the handle of his axe. He’s past the point of caring. The only thing he wants now is this asshole’s head split open and his blood splattered all over the chests and floor.

He will kill him, over and over again, as many times as it’ll take for him to stop coming back. Bring his axe down on his ribs until his bones are reduced to shards and dust, hack at him over and over until his organs are nothing more than minced meat.

He wants him _dead._

“Let’s fucking find out, you son of a _bitch—”_

He’s already shooting forward before the words have left his mouth, diamond axe raised high over his head to deliver a devastating blow. He can already taste blood on his tongue, can feel the warmth coating his hands and face and smell the metallic scent filling the air as he swings, intending to take Technoblade’s head clean off—

A flash of pink and silver beside him.

His axe screeches as it scrapes against the blackstone floor, right where Technoblade had once stood.

Quackity shouts a curse, eyes wide and furious as he turns on his heel, catching sight of narrowed red eyes and outstretched hands before one of the chests lining the wall is shoved towards him. It catches him in the stomach, sending him doubling over it with a pained wheeze. By the time he gathers his bearings and sidesteps the first chest, Technoblade has already kicked another one towards him, back turned as he makes a run for the tunnel. 

The fury that had been steadily building beneath his skin comes to the forefront, and Quackity does not bother to push it down as he screams.

“No, no, now you’re fucking—you _coward!”_ The scream that leaves him is guttural, outraged, as he lifts the axe and slams it down against the chest, splinters and wood chips flying as he cleaves it in half. “Fuck you, _fuck you!”_ The chest’s remains spill at his feet, kicked aside as he steps into the tunnel, eyes on the tall figure that stands at the end. 

Glass shards lay at Technoblade’s feet, glinting in the lantern light, and Quackity sneers as he stalks closer, enough to see the particles that drift away from his body and dissipate.

“Oh, now you’re using potions, motherfucker.” He hefts the axe over his shoulder again, keeping his white-knuckled grip on its handle. “But those won’t help you in the long run.”

“Quackity—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’s not listening to anything this bastard says.

Technoblade seems to realize this as well, for he sighs and the enchanted netherite pickaxe strapped to his hip finds its home in his hand.

Thus begins their slow rotation around the width of the tunnel, eyes tracking each other for an opening. Technoblade’s expression is cool, impassive, though his grip on his pickaxe is tight. On the other hand, Quackity’s expression is nothing short of hateful, scathing eyes cutting into him as they continue to circle each other. 

If he waits to find an opening, a crack in his defense, they’ll be here all night. He needs to make his move, _now._

Resolve set, he darts forward and attacks, axe whistling through the air as he slashes at Technoblade. His swing meets air yet again, as the man neatly ducks out of range with a step to the right. He brings his axe down at an angle, only to be blocked by the pickaxe’s handle – this close, he can see the tension lining Technoblade’s face, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, before he pushes against Quackity’s axe and shoves him back.

Quackity steadies himself, feet planting onto the floor before he can trip over his own feet, and grits his teeth as he swoops back in for another attack – he doesn’t intend to let him catch a break. He swings and swings, keeping Technoblade on his toes as the man weaves between each of his attacks. With each swipe, Quackity advances, following Technoblade step for step as he tries to keep his distance, backing him further and further towards the wall.

When his back collides with the blackstone, Quackity’s eyes light up with glee. “Nowhere to run, you son of a bitch!” 

His axe descends, slicing through the air, only to cut into one of the chains holding a lantern on the wall as Technoblade slips out of reach once more. It hurtles to the ground with a crash, its flame extinguished immediately upon contact with the floor, and Quackity shies away from the scattering shards, glass crunching under his boots. He blinks, eyes readjusting as the tunnel becomes considerably dimmer, though the remaining lanterns lining the walls still provide enough light for him to see a few feet in front of him.

It also lets him see the bare fist flying towards his face.

Knuckles slam hard into his nose and Quackity is sent reeling with a gasp, startled by the power behind it. Red drips onto his gloved palm, staining the fabric as he cups his nose with one hand. When he lifts his eyes, Technoblade is standing significantly further away, wary eyes tracking him.

“You motherfucker,” he spits, tasting copper on his tongue, wiping blood over his upper lip with the back of his hand. Technoblade says nothing, watching him straighten up and readjust his grip on his axe. “You have done so much fucking damage, to _everything_ we’ve been building all fucking long. And if there’s one thing I’m planning to do tonight, it’s end this bullshit. I’m gonna make you fucking pay.”

Quackity tears forward before his words have the chance to sink in, hoping to catch him off-guard. And by some stroke of luck, he does. Technoblade deflects his first swing but his next comes too fast for him to counter, and he hisses as the axe bites into his arm. Blood darkens his sleeve before he clamps a tight hand over the wound, and Quackity can’t help but bark out a triumphant laugh as Technoblade lifts his eyes to his.

His grin is crooked and far too smug. “Not so invincible after all, huh?”

Technoblade huffs, but doesn’t rise to his taunt. He flips the pickaxe into his other hand, seeming to wield it just as efficiently, and Quackity growls – _fucking show-off_ – as he tilts his head, seemingly in challenge. He’s so ready to beat the smugness out of this asshole, to prove that he’s no longer scared and is now a threat to be taken seriously. Gone are the days where he lived in fear of Technoblade, cowering underneath his gaze everytime those red eyes landed on him, keeping his head down everytime he passed, feeling dread settle in his gut at the mere mention of his name. He’s ending this _tonight._

Quackity tightens his hands around his axe, and the fight continues. 

One of his swings collides with his chestplate, hard enough to make him grunt, and he sneers as Technoblade steps back. His iron armor won’t stand a couple more hits from a diamond axe. If he can get a few more hits in, if he can weaken his armor enough to break it, it should leave his torso bare and free to feel the bite of his axe.

The thought of victory, so close he can practically taste it, sends a burst of energy through his limbs that have him attacking with vigor, eager to be the first to see his end. He has to be tiring, enough for him to get a clear shot in, he thinks, as Technoblade deflects yet another one of his swings. He has to be, _he has to be—_

An iron-clad foot suddenly slams into his chest and despite the chestplate preventing it from cracking his ribs completely, the blow is still enough to knock the air out of him. He stumbles against the wall, winded, scrambling to move as the glowing pickaxe arcs towards his head, the first offensive move Technoblade has made with it since the start of their fight.

Quackity ducks at the very last second, and sparks fly above his head as the netherite pickaxe strikes the blackstone. Despite the impact, it remains good as new, still sharp as Technoblade brings it back and swings towards him again. He’s not as quick dodging it this time, and a stinging pain erupts across his cheek as the pick slices it open. His free hand flies to his cheek as he hisses through his teeth, feeling warmth seep between his fingers and stain his gloves.

When his eyes find Technoblade, he’s surprised – and just the slightest bit wary – to see him frozen in place, eyes trained on the blood coating the very tip of his pickaxe. It pools onto the floor, a soft _drip—drip—drip_ echoing throughout the tunnel alongside Quackity’s strained breathing and the distant flow of water. Technoblade’s chest moves so slowly, it almost seems like the man isn’t breathing at all. 

A single thought pushes to the forefront of Quackity’s mind: _he’s distracted._

This could be his chance.

With painfully slow movements, he reaches for his axe. If he’s distracted, he can—

Red eyes snap towards his, right as his hand wraps around the handle, and pin him in place. Something sick and cold slides down his throat at the look in Technoblade’s eyes, an emotion Quackity can’t put a name to. Still, he refuses to be cowed.

“You’re dead now, Techno,” he snarls, forcing venom into his tone even as he swallows down the rising uneasiness. He wipes his cheek, smearing blood all over his skin, manic grin back in place – he’s sure he looks as deranged as he feels. His muscles are starting to ache, fatigue threatening to sap his energy like a leech, but he refuses to give up now. Not when he’s gotten this far.

He wipes the sweat beading on his forehead, huffing into the tunnel’s stale, heated air, and gets both hands back on his axe. Except when Quackity lunges at him, Technoblade doesn’t try to keep his distance like he did the past few times. Instead, he shoots forward, meeting him head-on and crashing against Quackity with a force that nearly knocks him right off his feet.

“Wh—” The words get stolen from his mouth as he staggers back, wide-eyed, scarcely avoiding the pickaxe as it comes flying at him. He stumbles over his feet, lifting his axe to counter Technoblade’s attack as the man moves towards him once more. Their weapons clash together, an impact that sends a jolt through Quackity’s arms and makes him grit his teeth to the point of pain.

Technoblade snarls at him over their interlinked weapons, a deep, guttural noise that briefly has him faltering, ice sinking deep into his veins. “I’ll put this pickaxe through your _teeth—”_

He brings his pickaxe back then forward, and aims straight for Quackity’s face.

Quackity narrowly dodges the swing, heart hammering against his ribcage when he hears the whistle of wind as it passes next to him. Helmet or not, the pick would’ve caved his skull in had it connected. 

Technoblade twists with his momentum, and the pickaxe comes hurtling at him with more speed. He lurches backwards, lifting his axe – the pickaxe clashes against him with another violent clang, and the jarring sensation that makes its way up Quackity’s arms for the second time almost makes him lose his grip on the handle.

If Technoblade had felt anything from that collision he doesn’t show it, advancing with deadly purpose as Quackity struggles to put distance between them, tensing his muscles to quell the shaking of his limbs. He pants, eyes raising to meet Technoblade’s – a spark of anger simmers in the carmine depths, and a chill runs up Quackity’s spine. The triumph he’d felt from landing a few hits on Technoblade has dwindled down to nothing, and the win that he thought was in sight is now miles away. At this point, he’s not even sure it was attainable in the first place.

He manages a step back when Technoblade takes another swipe at him, but the man seems to have adopted his strategy from earlier – lashing out repeatedly, relentless, keeping him on the move, giving him no time to settle or prepare for his next attack.

And with fatigue steadily encroaching on his waning energy, it’s clear he won’t last long.

The glint of the pickaxe appears in his vision as it rushes towards him and he gasps, too slow to avoid it as it finds its mark. Another stinging pain flares up along his brow bone, blood seeping into his vision and shading it red. He blinks the blood out of his eye as best as he can, dripping down the right side of his face in a macabre imitation of tears, and whips his head around to keep Technoblade in his sights.

 _He’s too close._ With every step back Quackity takes, Technoblade follows, staring him down with frightening intensity, eyes trained on him in a way that makes Quackity think, unwillingly, of a hunter watching its prey.

A bolt of dread shoots through him. He needs to get him _away._

That thought is what makes him lash out, an almost desperate edge to it, hoping the threat of being on the wrong end of his axe will make him keep his distance. But fatigue has made him sloppy, and Technoblade takes full advantage of that fatal fact. He ducks under Quackity’s wide swing, pouncing forward to shove his armoured shoulder into his abdomen and knock him off-balance.

A hiss slips between Quackity’s teeth as he lands on his back, axe clattering to the ground beside him. His helmet saves his head from a nasty encounter with the floor, but that’s where his luck runs out. His limbs feel like lead, working in tandem with his impossibly heavy armor to keep him down – fatigue has made good on its promise to sap his remaining strength – and he realizes with a harsh exhale that he _can’t get up._

The heavy boot that plants itself onto his chest right after makes certain of that. 

It pins him to the floor, rendering any attempt at escape futile – still, Quackity puts up a fight, refusing to be held down so easily. He writhes, struggling to dislodge his foot, fingers scraping against the blackstone as he reaches out for his axe. Technoblade shifts onto the foot on his chest, making him wheeze as his weight bares down on him. He kicks out with his opposite foot, toe catching the handle of the axe, and sends it skittering into the darkness. With no other weapon on his figure, Quackity comes to one frightening conclusion as he glares up at the other man: he is well and truly fucked.

Technoblade stands above him, outlined by the remaining lanterns and looking every bit the fearsome warrior he was foretold to be. His shadow looms, thrown across Quackity and the floor, and his features are pitched into near-darkness – his eyes, wide and feverish, and his tusks, thorn-sharp and bared, are the only things he can see.

He raises the pickaxe.

Quackity jolts.

 _“Fuck,_ no nonono—”

The pickaxe strikes his shoulder and sends a bone-jarring shock through his body that nearly makes him bite his tongue in half, meeting resistance in the form of his netherite armor. His second strike shatters that resistance, armor fracturing around the point of impact, and his third meets its mark.

It impales him, sinking right into his shoulder, and Quackity’s voice rises sharply in a shrill shriek as pain lances quick and white-hot through his arm. Blood gushes out of the wound, too fast for him to staunch as Technoblade rips the pickaxe out of his shoulder. He digs blunt, desperate nails into his exposed skin, clawing at him with renewed vigor, kicking and squirming underfoot like a trapped, frightened prey animal. Because that’s all he is here, right? Nothing more than prey. How foolish of him to think he could ever turn the tables, could ever go toe-to-toe with a hunter, a predator, a man seen as a _god_ , and survive.

Pain spikes through his shoulder with every panicked movement, spreading through his arm like scorching wildfire, but he grits his teeth against it. The blazing fury that had been surging through his veins is gone, making way for the icy bite of fear that catches his pounding heart in its jaws and refuses to let go. _This was not how it was supposed to go, this was **not—!**_

Technoblade lifts the pickaxe over his head again.

Quackity stills, wide-eyed and panting, one hand braced against his boot, the other pressed onto his bleeding shoulder.

“This is your final warning, Quackity,” Technoblade growls through bared fangs and tusks. “Come after me again and your last life will be _mine.”_ Pressing down on his chest, he snarls. _“Stay away from me.”_

Whatever response Quackity was going to give is interrupted by the pickaxe’s quick descent, sharpened tip smoothly piercing a bare, unarmoured throat. 

Quackity spasms, struggling for air he’s suddenly unable to get, and his gasping dissolves into wet gurgling as Technoblade rips the pickaxe from his throat, just as violently as before. His hand flies up, grasping at his neck, fingers slipping on his spurting blood as he tries vainly to cover his wound. Copper floods his mouth, spilling over his lips and joining the mess on his hand, and his vision darkens as his consciousness recedes like a tide, slipping through his hands far too fast for him to grasp onto. The last thing he sees is the glint of the bloody pickaxe in the lantern light as Technoblade raises it over his head again. 

He aims his next strike at his forehead.

Bone is a laughably weak defense against enchanted netherite and the added bonus of a strength potion, and his attack smashes whatever resistance it may have given to pieces. Jagged shards of bone scatter themselves as he smashes the man’s skull open, face caving in under his wrath. His arms don’t slow their movement, limbs entirely out of his control. He just keeps swinging, and swinging, and _swinging_ , long after Quackity’s grip on him has gone lax, long after his gurgling has faded into silence. 

It’s only when his pickaxe scrapes harshly against the floor and sends a jarring sensation up his arms that he returns to himself, gasping, arms aching from wielding the pickaxe, fending off Quackity’s deadly blows, from swinging it with so much force to reduce Quackity’s face to bloody paste on blackstone. The tunnel is filled with the sound of his harsh panting, stale air flowing through his nose and out of his mouth. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, a sharp staccato beat that hammers against his ribcage. All he can feel is warmth – on his hands, dripping down his face, splattered all over his chestplate and leggings and boots. 

Bits of bone and brain matter cling to his pickaxe, stained so red that the glow from its enchantments is almost invisible. He lowers it to his side with quivering limbs, continuing to breathe heavily through his nose. His eyes glance over the gore at his feet, the brutal, unrecognizable mess he’s made of Quackity’s face, oozing blood and bits of bone and teeth onto the blackstone. Seems he made good on that promise of putting it through his teeth.

Technoblade shakes his head.

He’ll respawn. He’ll be fine.

He needs to leave this tunnel, now. He’s not sure if Quackity had allies waiting for him outside and quite frankly, he’s not willing to stick around to find out. 

“I’ve gotta get outta here,” he whispers to himself. _I’ve gotta get back to Carl._ He stumbles as he turns and continues down the tunnel, farther and farther from the body that’s now beginning to twitch and shudder as it goes through the process of revival, unaware of the bloody footprints trailing him.

The voices – amused at being so boldly threatened, livid the moment Quackity took that first swipe at him, baying for blood through their fight and shrieking in elation once he drew blood – finally settle in the back of his mind, blissfully quiet. They’d clambered over themselves, wanting not just to be heard but to be _listened_ to, coalescing into one ear-piercing cacophony as they urged him to let go, to loosen the restraints he had on his darker impulses, to spill blood and live up to the dreadful title he’d been given, passed through fearful whispers and spoken into the dark like a curse. 

And he’d tried fighting them. Oh, he tried. But the sight of Quackity’s blood on his pickaxe seemed to do nothing but spur them on and he just wanted them to _stop._

So he let go.

Now, they are quiet. Content. Bloodthirst satiated, yet it would only be a matter of time before they returned, eager to pressure him for more. 

Technoblade digs his nails into his palms, hard enough to leave stinging indents. He stumbles on.

**Author's Note:**

> lowkey kinda hate this but its cool lmao. im so glad its done bc now this means i can focus primarily on my dad puffy and duckling dream fic. and some self-indulgent dreamnap but we dont talk about that part skdjsjs
> 
> anyways! kudos/comments are appreciated, whatever ur willing to give at this time is completely fine by me
> 
> stay classy, drink water, do shit that makes u happy, ur all bad bitches :*


End file.
